


1872

by cappugccino



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 23:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cappugccino/pseuds/cappugccino
Summary: Aziraphale overslept and Crowley is cranky about it.





	1872

Aziraphale doesn’t hear his name the first time. Instead, as he rouses from his sleep, he smells the lavender in the bedsheets. He tastes the dryness in his mouth. He feels the soft thrum of the souls sleeping in other rooms smattered around the manor. And then, he feels the air shift. The chill raises the small hairs on his arm. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tone implies it’s second, perhaps third or fourth, attempt to rouse him from his sleep. When Aziraphale opens his eyes, squinting in the bright light filtering through the delicate lace curtains, he sees the source of the unsympathetic cold. Rolling onto his back, Aziraphale shifts upright in bed. His head spins for a moment. He overindulged. Before he has a moment to open his mouth, to yawn or ask for water, Crowley is speaking again, “You’re late.”

There isn’t any malice in his words. He says it rather matter-of-factly. He isn’t angry. If anything, he sounds disappointed. It’s unlike him. For Crowley’s many faults, he’s not often disappointed in Aziraphale. It’s disheartening. Before the celestial can raise his eyes to Crowley’s face, investigate the source of the disappointment, Crowley is looking away from him. The redhead looks misplaced in the room of porcelain and doilies. 

“Is it that time already?” Aziraphale turns his head to gaze out the window. It’s not quite dawn. 

“We were supposed to have lunch in Paris,” Crowley says. And now he’s angry. Aziraphale can see it in his rigid posture and in the veins in his hands as he tightens and loosens his fists. 

“I know. I remember.” He’s sliding out of bed and stepping into his pants. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Aziraphale steps towards the demon, his hand outstretched, but Crowley puts space between them. 

“Did you?” Crowley turns to face him again. He’s wearing the same polarised lenses he’s been sporting since the last century. “How were you planning to get there in time?” 

“A miracle,” Aziraphale says, easily. “Well, a minor miracle.” He steps forward and removes the sunglasses from Crowley’s face. Before his friend has time to protest, he shushes him. “Don’t worry. Everyone else is asleep.” He’s made sure of that. 

“Weren’t you reprimanded?” Crowley asks. His deadpan tone is worrying. He raises an eyebrow when he notices the quirk of Aziraphale’s mouth. Annoyance flashes across his features. “A strongly worded note. That’s what you said.” He points his finger at Aziraphale’s chest. “And yet here I find you, in Rhode Island, wherever the heaven that is—“ 

“Yes, but our lunch date was— is important.” Aziraphale pulls on his periwinkle dressing gown. “I’m so terribly sorry that I overslept. I wasn’t planning to miss it. In fact, I was looking forward to it.” It’s not a good excuse. He doesn’t even need to sleep. He folds Crowley’s sunglasses in his hands. “They have something in the kitchen called English muffins. They’re like crumpets but worse. Truly fascinating. Can I make you one?” 

“You’re really selling them, angel.” Crowley’s hopeful eyes betray his disgruntled tone.

As they make their way down to the kitchen, Crowley takes the opportunity to disparage every piece of gaudy furniture. He loathes the gilded nature of the interior design. What did humans have to celebrate anyway, he thought? Old money is always going to hate new money. Aristocrats will continue to cling to social acceptance over happiness. As Crowley drawled on, Aziraphale watched his brow line fade. His rigid shoulders softened. He walked at Aziraphale’s slower pace. 

“What it makes them happy?” Aziraphale asks. “What if champagne toasts and loud music make them happy?” He looks up at his friend, his slitted eyes, the way he carries himself with an air of importance. “Don’t those things make you happy?” 

Crowley clicks his tongue, “These people don’t know how to be happy.”

“Quite the contrary,” Aziraphale begins, his normal Southern charm returning. “Last night, they were extremely unexpected. God’s creatures, you know, made in his image. Jumping into the pool and dancing in their underwear.” The angel smiles. It’s toothy and genuine. “Singing lyrics they couldn’t quite remember, slurring their speech, and sloshing their wine. One of them even kissed me.” He laughs at how preposterous that sounds. “Me!” 

Standing in the kitchen, Aziraphale removes two English muffins from the breadbox. He slices them in half and sets them on the cleanest cutting board in the kitchen. He turns on the gas stove and sets the muffins on a metal frame. Placing them in the oven, he turns to Crowley, who is busy turning on the kettle. Pointedly busy. “All right, so maybe they know how to overindulge in wine then.” And Aziraphale gets the message to change the topic. 

“Our rendezvous are traditionally unplanned.” It’s a statement more than a question. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?” Aziraphale leans his weight against the countertop. Crowley looks up at him and his eyes are yellow slits. He quickly crosses the room, crowding Aziraphale against the porcelain. The angel flinches from the sudden movement. 

“You’re younger.” Crowley says before motioning to Aziraphale’s face. “Yeah, I’m certain of it. Around the eyes.” His gaze wonders down. “And the waistline.” A smile splits across the snake’s face. “Are you growing vain, angel? Worried about your looks?” 

Aziraphale feels red at the tips of his ears. He ducks his head to avoid Crowley’s discerning gaze. “No, it’s not— Well, I am.” He stumbles over his words. “It’s not for me. I don’t mind. But, they wouldn’t want a old man like me at this party. So, I lied. A little. A minor lie.” Crowley grips the countertop and Aziraphale is properly trapped, “You made yourself younger to get invited to this mediocre party?” 

“And thinner.” Aziraphale adds quietly. 

“And thinner!” Crowley yells loudly.

Crowley groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. This movement allows Aziraphale to move away from the countertop. He removes two mugs from the shelf so they can have tea. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.” Aziraphale selects English breakfast for Crowley and earl grey for himself. 

“That isn’t a problem to you? It’s exactly what I was saying.” Crowley asks, arms crossed. “You don’t want to be invited to that party. You don’t want to go to that party.” 

Aziraphale, pouring the boiling water into two cups, frowns. “I had a marvellous time. We drank champagne with orange juice. We gazed at the stars. We danced for hours.” 

Crowley takes a seat at the table. The tablecloth is dirty and it’s littered with champagne bottles and scotch glasses. Crowley wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Sure. This little fake version of you.” He puts his elbows on the table, “Did you pretend to be illiterate, too? Did you say you were an atheist?” 

“That’s not fair.” Aziraphale pouts. He offers Crowley his tea and the demon accepts it gratefully. “I wanted to fit in. I wanted to dance in the garden and eat a tray of petit fours. Is that so wrong?” 

“You could have done that as yourself.” Crowley says as he catches Aziraphale’s wrist. He pulls the angel closer and Aziraphale obliges. “You shouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else. You deserve those things.” 

Aziraphale exhales, “Not everyone likes me the way I am.” 

“I do,” Crowley says easily. “I like you just the way you are. With the blond curls and the pudgy stomach and the way your voice pitches when you’re excited.” He pulls Aziraphale into his lap. His weight is solid and warm. Aziraphale’s thighs settle slightly parted. Crowley ignores it. “I like you the way you are. And there’s no reason to change yourself for those petty humans.” 

Aziraphale drags his fingertips across Crowley’s lower lip. “Even when I dance poorly and eat too much cake?” The demon nips lightly at the angel’s finger, “Especially when you do that.” 

Aziraphale exhales and it’s warm against Crowley’s cheek. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me?” 

Crowley leans in, “It wasn’t important.” Except it was.

**Author's Note:**

> I binged the series and wrote this quickly to fill the need for early morning kisses and body positivity.


End file.
